In the Month of August
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: In which August believes he is the only one who can keep Christine Hollis alive. August/Christine
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE:** _Chapter One_

**PAIRING:** _August/Christine_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**WORD COUNT:** _1549_

**WARNINGS:** _Character death_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_ this story has really been a labour of love for me to write during a difficult time_

**DISCLAIMER:**

* * *

She's looking at the food he's brought for them with utter contempt. He's already sat her on back up on the hotel chair, taking great care to make sure she's comfortable. Her wrists are bruised and starting to swell from where she'd tugged them against the rope and as much as he wants to remove her bonds, he can't—he can see she still wants to get away, that she doesn't understand the gravity of the situation.

So far August has attempted to ease Christine with the offers of food, explaining he knows she often eats when she's upset and he knows that she loves Chinese takeout, just like him. However, he's only made her more upset.

"If you really know me, then you'd know that _this_ makes my stomach hurt."

Her head angrily jerks towards the open take out container he's set on the bed next to her. It contains the spiciest dish on the menu, infused with three different types of chili oil and two different types of peppers, and his absolute favourite.

"Chilies make me _sick_."

He can feel the contempt has more to do with him than the food, but he quickly bows his head, searching through the white paper bag and finds something that he himself has never actually cared for; he opens the small takeout box and tilts it to show her the steamed white rice inside.

"Will you eat this?" he asks hopefully.

"Yes," she mumbles.

He pulls a small plastic fork of out the bag and kneeling on one knee in front of her, offers her a bite of the soft, flavourless food.

She turns her head away from, defiant. "I don't want you to feed me!"

"I cannot untie you," he says helplessly.

"Fine," she hisses, still not looking at him. "Then I'll starve."

* * *

December, September, and July sit at the table in the Indian restaurant, staring at him in the way all members of the Council do. He has never defied anything the Council of Months has decided on and while under any other circumstance he might believe he was obligated to do their bidding, but he feels the small aura off the stuffed animal stored safely in his briefcase and it gives him the strength he needs.

_Christine_.

She is a universe, everything he's ever wanted to know, an enigma. She is made of wonder and possibility, potential that could change how everyone views everything. He remembers her first horseback riding lesson, when she jumped into a lake warmed by the summer sun, how she sat in her car in the post office parking lot to read her university acceptance letter, the way she picks dandelions and holds them to her nose…

Unfortunately, December, July, and September are close enough to him to see these things, absorbing the information with osmosis, and he can tell that they don't find them as significant.

He doesn't understand. Why would he know she's important and yet none of them would understand? After all, the Council of Months voted that Peter Bishop may _remain_ so long as he acts as a positive reflection to life in this universe—September has assured them that the second Bishop is being coaxed by his father to _apply himself_ more.

But Christine…

"Your actions took us all by surprise. I take it you've come here to explain yourself," December says finally.

"Then you are aware of the plane crash," August says, the grip on his briefcase's handle tightening.

"Of course. Christine Hollis. Who is she?" December asks even though he and the other members of the Council by now can see what he knows.

But August has to explain himself. "I have observed this woman for much of her life. She is unique."

"They are all unique," September protests. "That is not reason to interfere with the course her life was meant to take."

August's eyes lock on September's. "We have interfered _before_."

September is quick to point out what is obvious. "Only to correct a mistake of our own making. She has no future."

He knows they're wrong and wishes they understood. "Then why do I see it? Why do I see that she is important?"

December hasn't blinked. "Your perception must be in error."

August doesn't agree. "Perhaps."

"Your oversight will be forgiven, But Miss Hollis must be corrected. We've already seen to it."

August doesn't even hear December finish the sentence—he's already on his way out the door.

* * *

"If you're going to kill me, just do it! No one's looking for me," she says, a tear sliding down her cheek when he returns to the motel room.

"Yes, _they_ are. That's why I've had to hide you," he assures.

"Who?" she asks as he maneuvers her chair to face away from the beds and towards the television.

"The others." His mind feels heavy. "This wasn't supposed to happen and they want to change it back to the way it should be."

She shakes her head. "What?"

"It should be on by now."

Within seconds, the television is explaining everything. The fiery plane crash in Italy has left her entirely silent and while she stares at the wreckage slack jawed and wide eyed, he keeps his gaze on her. The dimness of the room and the moving light of the newscast play shadows across her face, highlighting and exaggerating her bone structure, her lashes, the muscles beneath the skin—

"You were going to die," he states.

"I…I was supposed to be on that flight," she finally breathes, her voice throaty and shocked.

"I saved you."

"Did you know…" She turns back to him. "Did you know that it was going to crash?"

"Yes," he says with a single nod.

"Was it—are you a terrorist?!" she asks, her eyes wider and glistening.

"No." He turns his attention back to the television screen. "We see things."

"We?" she whispers and he feels that her fear is dissipating into curiosity.

"I don't have the time to explain it to you," he says, standing up once more.

His head snaps around to face towards the door. The danger is getting closer and if he doesn't protect her—

"What—what is it?" she whispers and he turns back to her.

He can feel the wave of fear rushing through her but now he sees that it isn't directed at him. She understands he's not the threat.

"Do you…_trust_ me?"

Small neurons and atoms shift within her, processing and weighing the question. "_Yes_."

"Then you must do exactly…as I say," he orders, starting to untie her.

She nods and he can feel the surrender in her.

* * *

Returning to the motel room, he pulls the pillows off the bed frantically, tossing them to the floor. Christine, who is wedged tightly between the headboard and the mattress, looks up at him with her large eyes, fear running through her as if it is what makes up her blood.

"Hurry, we only have a few minutes," he says, pulling her out of her hiding space.

She blurts out, "What happened—"

"You're not safe yet—"

A member of the Council of Months has never taken a life before and as much as the action disturbed August, it was the only way for Christine to stay safe for now. He knows that all across the span of time, members of the Council are turning their heads in his direction, sensing the great disruption. Christine was worth the death of Donald Long.

Her hand is small in his and the adrenaline her body has created is incredibly painful to him, but he is willing to endure it to get her away from this location. There is a car down in the parking lot that he's already decided they will use to escape. Down the stairs, he can feel her heart pounding and her hand squeezes his tighter as she sees the body lying on the ground, so he pulls her in front of him and slips his free hand over her eyes, the hand that was holding hers going to her wrist to gently guide her along.

She's in front of him and as he directs her to the car, she whispers, "Did you do that?"

He can feel her sorrow for Long and for a moment he believes that the feelings are his own. "Yes."

"Is that who was coming after me?"

He unlocks the car door with his fingertip. "He was just one."

Her body tenses and his hand still cover her eyes. "There are _more_?"

"Countless."

Her voice is high pitched. "I'm still in danger?"

He opens the door behind the driver's seat and ushers her inside.

"Lay down. Once we're a safe distance away, you can sit up."

He shuts the door behind her and assumes the position as driver. He spares one last glance at the still body of Donald Long and quickly speeds away from the motel, glancing over at the briefcase he'd already stashed safely on the floor of he passenger side.

In the backseat of the car, August hears Christine weakly ask, "Why me?"

"Because you are important," he says firmly, trying to convince her as much as he's trying to convince himself.

"Why?"

August doesn't answer, just continues driving into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE:** _Chapter Two_

**PAIRING:** _August/Christine_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**CHALLENGES:** _Wildwood NJ, Roanoke VA, West Palm Beach FL_

**WORD COUNT: **_1008_

**WARNINGS: **_None_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**DISCLAIMER:** _not mine_

* * *

It takes two whole days before she finally asks him what his name is. She's lying in the back seat of the new car he's stolen (they switched out from the one at the motel sometime this morning when it was still dark and he knew they wouldn't be seen). They're passing through New Jersey, entering a town called Wildwood and he hears her stirring against he leather seats.

"What's your name?" she asks, her voice as clear as the morning sky.

"August," he says, his eyes glancing up at the rearview mirror to check for anyone following.

"Like Augustus?"

"August," he answers simply.

"_August_," she echoes and he feels something in his self move and shift.

The Council of Months has said his name on many occasions and yet it's as if he's hearing it being said for the first time.

"I'm Christine," she says, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Christine Hollis," he agrees.

"Why do you know so much about me?"

Thankfully she's headed his words of 'stay hidden' and she stays down. By now, Walter Bishop has convinced the FBI to stop looking for her, but he is confident that the Council of Months is still hunting for them.

"You are special," he finally answers.

"Special?" she repeats.

"Unique," he expounds, turning his head slightly to look at her lying there.

He can feel how curious she is. "Why?"

"It is hard to say yet. But you are. Do not doubt that." He nod, entirely certain in what he saying, and turns his attention back to the road.

* * *

New Year's day is the first day he lets her sit in the front seat of their current stolen car. It's refreshing to get to watch the world pass by in the way she's used to—not lying on her back in the backseat and looking up at the sky. It's three days later and she eats up the scenery eagerly.

Very courteously he'd retrieved her luggage and her travelers checks from her friend's house and in Wildwood, NJ he'd taken her to one of her bank's branches and she'd pretended nothing was off, smiling as she explained to the teller that _'something came up and I'm just going to cash these in and take all the money out of my account'_.

Two thousand seven hundred from her now empty bank account and fifteen hundred from the traveler's check left her with the grand total of four thousand, one hundred dollars and seven cents (she'd found two pennies and a nickel under the floor mat of the car they'd stolen). She has no idea how far this much money can take them and while she doesn't understand everything about August, she does trust him. No, she really doesn't have any concrete reason why she does, so she chocks it up to women's intuition.

They've just pulled out of Roanoke VA and there's a road side stand that perks her interest and as if he can read her mind, he pulls over, though he doesn't unlock the car doors.

"I really want some of that maple syrup," she says softly, looking at the sign and the man bundled in a parka and stocking cap standing by his wares.

What she really wants is something normal. She finds her wallet and pulls out a twenty, holding it out to August.

"I'll stay in the car," she promises.

He looks at her for a moment and without hint of expression, he takes the money from her and exits the car. She watches with interest as he talks to the man at the stand and trades the money for two small, maple leaf bottles and some change. He returns to the car and hands them over to her. They sit in there silently for a moment, her clutching the icy glass bottles, he with his hands folded neatly in his lap.

"Thank you," she says softly.

"I will get you what you need."

She doesn't notice that he starts the car without keys.

"I meant, thank you for saving my life."

He shows no emotion, but she knows he's telling the truth when he says, "I couldn't let anything happen to you."

* * *

Christine had always wanted to visit Florida and now here she is, only she can't leave this small hotel room. She's barricaded herself in the small, musty smelling bathroom, her hair drip-drying, now a bleached brassy yellow that barely reaches her shoulders and she's crying as she looks at herself in the mirror over the sink.

Right now August is sitting on his bed, allowing her privacy as she goes through the drastic process of altering her looks and she can hear the TV playing quietly through the thin bathroom door. She feels so stupid for crying about her hair, but deep down she knows it's really more than her hair. It's about losing everything and then losing it all over again.

Her identity? Gone. The life she knew? Gone. The things she loved? Gone.

She's never going to get to go to school, she's never going to get to visit Italy, she's never going to have a normal life. She wants to throw up, she wants to scream at the top of her lungs…

There is knocking on the bathroom door and she wipes her tears away, quickly pulling her t-shirt back on. She opens the door and there stands the enigmatic man who's saved her, strange and somewhat frightening.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice breaking slightly from the knot in her throat.

"Are you all right?"

Her lashes flutter as she fights tears. "Why me?"

"Because you are important," he replies flatly.

"Why?"

She is crying so hard she can't tell if he even answers.


	3. Chapter 3

**TITLE:** _Chapter Three_

**PAIRING:** _August_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**WORD COUNT:** _2088_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**DISCLAIMER:** _not mine_

* * *

Christine's entire life can now fit into a suitcase, a carryon bag, and a purse. Clothes, money, an abundance of motel shampoos and soap… a jewelry roll, her two still unopened bottles of maple syrup from Vermont. She's had to eliminate some of the things she doesn't need: at a used bookstore she'd traded in her Italian language guides for roadmaps of the US and the lovely digital camera she'd bought specifically for her semester in Rome she sold at a pawn shop for half what she'd paid.

While everything she owns has been condensed into three bags, all she's ever seen August with is his briefcase. One suit, one hat, and his briefcase. While her life has been completely upended, she feels even worse for him because he has literally nothing but the clothes on his back.

"So what do you keep in your briefcase?" she asks one morning as they leave a city far behind them.

He keeps his eyes on the road while she sips her drive-through coffee. "My work."

"Oh." The answer is so vague she isn't sure if he's doing it intentionally or if he's just being himself. "So, like papers and stuff."

He doesn't answer and she wonders if she's out of line. "Look, if it's confidential stuff—"

"Then you don't have to tell me," they finish together.

She stares at him. It doesn't matter how many times he finishes her sentences, she's always dumbfounded by it. He looks over at her, so emotionless, and she isn't sure what to say.

"A thermos and a notebook." He turns away and gives another vague answer. "And other work."

Northern Georgia is amazing; when she thinks of the South, she always pictures 'Gone With the Wind', plantations, and bayous. This part of the state is lush forests, open sky, and isolation. While she loves cities with the hustle and bustle of people, she finds herself craving the remoteness of the outdoors—August had warned her that the people looking for her could look like anyone and her own paranoia has made her nervous of others.

And even though August is odd, she can't complain about being stuck with him; he never hesitates to make her comfortable, doing little favours such as bringing local newspapers to read while she stays locked up in different motel rooms or sun warmed fruit that tastes as though it's been plucked right off the tree even though it's the middle of winter.

He's ready to leave their current motel, move them somewhere else and she's excused herself to the bathroom for a moment to brush her hair before they leave. But as has become custom, she spends the moment alone staring at herself in the mirror, wondering where her life is going.

"_I'm never going to go to Italy. I'm never going to graduate. I'm never going to see my friends."_

She gives herself a determined smile, a quick, reassuring nod, and swallows back the pain she feels. Christine if anything is brave, and extremely grateful to be alive and she doesn't want to give August the impression that she isn't either.

"Things could be worse," she tells herself.

And this is true. She knows she could be dead, that she could be hidden away in a safe house, locked away in a room for the rest of her life.

No, now she gets to see the country—something she's always wanted to do—and she doesn't have to worry about bills, cleaning dishes, or the rest of the mundane mess that is part of everyday life. She smiles again at herself in the mirror then grabs her bag to join August in the parking lot.

* * *

Tonight they will not stay in a motel room—August is very cautious of staying out of sight of both her kind and his, so once he finds a mountain road isolated enough, he pulls over onto the gravelly shoulder overlooking a forested valley; here he has the luxury of a steep drop to his right and a steep, rocky mountain face to his left, leaving him to watch in front and behind him.

They'd taken this car from a parking lot, carefully switching the plates and removing any defining features such as the license plate frames and stuffed mascot in the back window. It's not very big, but Christine decided to lie down on the backseat anyway. He tilts the rearview mirror down, able to see only her hip and the side of her thigh, the dark cloth of her jeans not reflecting the moonlight very well.

He can tell she's not very comfortable, cramped on her side in the back of the small car, but she hasn't complained. He admires that about her—he can feel her discomfort at the radical changes she's had to accept in order to stay alive, yet she never expresses it to him.

"August?" she says softly.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we could steal cars that don't belong to anybody? Like, from a dealership? I just feel bad that we're taking someone's car. I mean, what if they use it to take their grandpa to the hospital or it's a birthday present or—"

"If you would prefer that," he replies and can immediately feel how happy that makes her.

"Cool."

He feels her settle against the cushions of the seat and her mind starts to slow as she begins to fall asleep. He glances at her in the rearview mirror once more then returns his attention back to keeping watch—he's still close enough that he can bask in the serenity that has overcome her.

August wonders how he could have gone his whole life without this.

* * *

Christine sits at their north Texas motel room's table, memorising the complimentary menu left by a local restaurant. Occasionally her eyes shift over the second bed in the room, the one closest to the closet, looking at the still form that lies there. Yesterday afternoon August had stumbled into the room, looking drained of energy. He hadn't spoken before passing out on his bed, leaving her scared and confused; her first reaction would have been to call 911, but he hadn't seemed wounded, just tired. Then last night, she'd awoken to the sound of him filling a water bottle in the bathroom sink. She'd called out to him when he'd come back into the room, asking if he was okay, but he'd merely returned to his bed and slept.

Right now, she can't exactly tell if he's breathing so she gets up from the table and hesitantly walks over his bed. The room is dark save for the lamp on the table she's been reading at, so she stands over him, holding her palm above his nose to feel him exhale. Nothing. Her eyes widen slightly and she is ready to feel for a pulse when his eyes flutter for a moment and she sees his irises focus on her before he shuts them once more. She backs away from the bed to sit on the edge of her own.

Yesterday she'd ate the last of the leftover food she'd brought with them and this morning she'd ventured out of the motel room long enough to buy a few granola bars at the vending machine near the motel office, but she was hungry again and August was really in no condition to get them food, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. With the phone at the table and the menu she's spent a good portion of the day reading over and over, she calls for take out, excited that she's doing something she used to do in her former life.

"Hey, I wanted to place an order. Um, what's spicier: the number fifteen or the twenty-one?" She glances over the menu, even though she has it memorised. "Okay, an order of the 15 and two of the twenty-one. And some of the fried rice…ooh! You have vegetable dumplings! I'll take an order of those, too…"

She gives them the hotel name and room number and after waiting for thirty minutes, she unlocks the door, slips the delivery boy the money and a small tip then accepts the food.

She stands over August and after a moment of hesitation, she touches his shoulder. His eyes fly open and when he speaks, his voice sounds unused and dry.

"Is there something you need?"

She shakes her head. "I bought us some dinner. You haven't had anything to eat in over a day."

As he labouredly sits up, his back against the headboard, she retrieves the takeout that's labeled for him and he accepts it, opening each box to inspect what he's to eat.

His eyes widen a fraction, the closest she's ever seen him express surprise. "This food has chilies."

"Yes, it's all for you." She hesitates, but decides to pat his shoulder anyway, giving him a reassuring smile. She heads back to her seat at the motel room table. "If you need anything, let me know."

* * *

It's one in the morning and they're sitting in an empty dinner, Christine tracing a French fry through ketchup and he with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He's just told her that he'd been there the day her parents had died, that he'd seen everything, too, just as she had. Members of the Council do not unusual divulge what they have seen to others, but he didn't feel…_right_ keeping the information from her. He's decided not to reveal anything more, nothing about his kind, or his abilities, just that she's special.

He can feel her processing the information, trying to fit the pieces into her world, trying to make sense of it. He can sense the chaos and turmoil within her, the stress, the way her heart beats, her mind awhirl.

At last her eyes meet his and she smiles at him, finally taking a bite of the French fry.

* * *

She's having what they refer to as one of her "bad days". She's lying on her bed, her body wrapped around one of the hotel room pillows, her eyes red and face streaked with tears. She's spent hours crying and while he needs to go out and watch things, August can feel that she needs him there and so he stays, sitting on his bed while she sobs on hers. He is quiet and unsure what to do as her emotions are like a tidal wave rushing to shore—vast and overwhelming, something he is simply not prepared to handle. He doesn't like feeling distress, especially from her, and he/she feels the weight of losing everything that meant anything pressing down on her. He's so used to her being brave and staying strong, but every so often everything becomes too much for her to bear. He is thankful that this does not make him find her any less special. Today the episode was triggered by a news segment about a little boy that had gone missing in the Florida foster care system and he assured her multiple times that the boy was not in any pain anymore.

Her compassion for others astounds him. How beautiful her love for her own kind is, treasuring the life of others.

He has never seen this in another being.

For her comfort, he draws the curtains to shade her from the afternoon light and turns off the television. He wonders if the silence and dark reminds her of a womb—the silence and dark reminds him of a place he once was, too.

Softly, somewhat muffled, her voice calls out from the pillow. "August?"

"Yes?"

She sniffled a bit. "Could you have saved my parents?"

The feelings within her are black and deep red, a beating heart within the dark wet warmth of her body. He can see the desperation in her, the need for answers to questions that have haunted her. In the dim light of the room his eyes meet hers, watching her wet eyelashes.

"No," he tells her firmly.

She nods and her eyes close. August relaxes, sensing the calm that comes to her. He stands from the bed, gathering his things because he can feel she doesn't need him there anymore, that she's brave again.

"Why me?"

"Because you are important."

"Why?"

The members of the Council of Months can only speak truths—telling her he couldn't have saved her parents is the first and only time he has ever told a lie.


	4. Chapter 4

**TITLE:** _Chapter Four_

**PAIRING:** _August_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**CHALLENGES:** _Missouri, Wisconsin_

**WORD COUNT:** _1464_

**WARNINGS:** _None_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Part of this was taken from 'Milk', a drabble I did._

**DISCLAIMER:** _Not mine_

* * *

This evening August stands by the hood of the car, watching her in silent fascination. They're pulled over on a rural road in Missouri, on the edge of a supercell building to become a tornado. The summer air is filled with electricity, molecules dancing, multiplying, expanding to become something great and powerful.

Christine's standing barefoot in the field, a few meters away from the car as she holds a wide-brimmed hat to her head, a strong breeze coming from the north. The hem of her dress flutters wildly, clinging to the back of her knees.

They've been running for over six months, he having watched her for an eternity, and yet he's still learning things about her.

"I love thunderstorms!" she yells out to him, grinning ear to ear.

She turns back to the cumulonimbus, the wind whipping the loose strands of alfalfa left over from an early baling and they see the lightening arcing through the air. As the sound of thunder reaches them, she runs back to the car, laughing and leaping over the irrigation ditch between the road and the field. The wind snatches her hat away from her and he starts to go after it, but she calls back for him, telling him that,

"It's okay! I don't need the hat!"

He hesitates, but returns to the car just as the hail starts coming down. The emotions and sensations of how she experienced the weather flicker and float off her, some absorbing into him while others fade away.

* * *

Aside from the one time back in Texas, Christine has never seen August sleep.

She usually goes to bed in her clothes, worried that she might get woken in the middle of the night, August warning her that faceless assassins have come for her. Actually, she dreams about that a lot, waking up in a cold sweat, only to see him sitting in the dark, his back against the headboard. And this morning is no different just like she has this morning. She sits up, gasping for air (she'd pictured that the dead man from the parking lot had killed August and was pointing the gun at her) and once she's calmed her racing heart, she turns to look at the strange man sitting on the bed next to hers.

A hint of light has made its way through the motel curtains and she can see that he's looking at her. She lays back down, turning on her side to face him.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asks groggily.

His eyes reflect the pale light. "No."

"I know you have to. I'm getting tired just looking at you," she says, laughing slightly.

"Maybe you are ill," he suggests and she sighs, shaking her head.

"Do you watch me the entire time I sleep?" she jokes.

"Yes," he replies and she knows he's serious.

She raises her eyebrows. "Why?"

He swings his feet over the edge of his bed and goes over to the closet. "Your feet are cold. I'll bring you the extra blanket from the closet."

Her skin prickles slightly as she realises her feet _are_ cold and she sits up again. "Why do you watch me while I sleep?"

"It's quiet." He brings the motel room's extra blanket and begins to spread it out across her bed. "You do not have to worry about anything. I have not sensed anything for some time now."

She makes a face. "What do you mean by 'some time'? Like, a month? A day?"

There is silence between them and he turns his head to stare at the motel room door; he's being mysterious again, giving her no real answers. "You do not have anything to worry about them. I will protect you."

She closes her eyes. "I know you will."

* * *

Wisconsin in the summer is far greener and warmer than Christine expects. She's still growing accustomed to being a bottle blonde, her fingers occasionally drifting to her neck to play with the dark phantom locks that would normally be too hot for her to bear. Somewhat unaccustomed to being out of school, she spends hours in assorted motel rooms watching the History and Discovery Channels and filling out notebook after notebook with information she's learned. August's warned her that it's still not safe for her outside, so this is her only escape from tedious hours of being alone.

She's learned about the Great Depression, about Stonehenge and Vikings. She fills out scraps of paper and the backs of fliers with facts about Napoleon and the Bactrian camel. Her mind swims with ideas of Van Gogh and how the Model T worked, the way Buddhism and the Zuni are eerily similar despite being on opposite sides of the globe. Christine learns and learns more than she's ever done before. When her carryon bag becomes too full to accommodate her 'studies', as she calls them, she decides to get rid of two pairs of dress shoes and puts them out by one of the motel's vending machines; they are gone by morning.

August, who has brought her notebooks four through seven finally becomes curious at what she writes and while he doesn't exactly strike her as a history buff, she finds that he can hold a conversation about almost everything she's studied. It makes her curious about him, but she respects his privacy, so she says nothing, just listens to him describe passages of time as if he were there himself…

* * *

It's very early in the morning and she can hear the sound of the motel bathroom's shower being used. She rolls over to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand between their beds. 5:23. Her eyes feel heavy and she nearly falls back asleep when she hears the shower stop and the bathroom door open. The yellow light from the bathroom illuminates the wall opposite her and she can see his shadow. She closes her eyes and can hear him quietly walking into the room.

After counting to ten, she peeks her eye open and is immediately stunned at what she sees. August is walking silently from the bathroom to their shared closet, wearing only one of the motel's cheap towels. He glances back at her bed and she closes her eyes shut, keeping her breathing slow as if she's still asleep. She hears the closet door open and in the dark of the room, she pops her eyes open once more. She stares at the unnaturally white, smooth, _naked_ expanse of his broad shoulders, watching the way muscles shift beneath his skin as he retrieves a spare suit he's acquired—

Quickly her eyes shut as he turns around once more. God, it's like he _knows_ she's watching him! She feels like some creepy pervert, leering at him in the dark and it takes all of her will power to keep her eyes closed until she hears the sound of the bathroom door shutting. And she knows he's a man, but she's never ever bothered to think about him in anything but a suit—

She rolls over and pulls a pillow over her head, embarrassed beyond belief that she's thinking of August in any way at all. Unable to face him, she doesn't emerge from bed until he's left for the day.

* * *

It's late evening and they are sitting on their separate beds, Christine cross-legged and hunched over her notebook as she watches a show called Jeopardy (the title confuses him as no one is in peril, merely answering questions). August enjoys watching her write, though he isn't sure why she records the events she does.

"Did you know that Arkansas produces the most rice of any of the states?" she asks when he gets up to drink from his bottle of water on the bathroom counter.

"I did not know that," he comments.

He pauses to look at her writing and she grabs the red notebook off the bed offering it up to him. He accepts it and as he opens the soft paper cover she tells him,

"That one is about weather. I wrote some poetry, so, you know…if you want to see what I think about tornados…"

She gives him a slight smile and shrugs before moving onto her knees, flipping the pages of the notebook in his hands until they land on a section of writing in red ink. He isn't able to read her kind's language, so he merely traces his fingertips across her delicate handwriting, absorbing the faint emotions she's left behind on the paper.

"Why me?" she asks softly.

"Because you are important," he says, looking at the abstract figures on the page.

She goes back to writing and only when her pen pauses does she ask, "Why?"


	5. Chapter 5

**TITLE:** _Chapter Five_

**PAIRING:** _Augustine_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**CHALLENGES:** _Wyoming_

**WORD COUNT:** _2540_

**WARNINGS:** _Sexual themes_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**DISCLAIMER:**

* * *

Wyoming is vast and empty of people, which allows for heightened focus on the connexion between the two of them—August can be blocks away and still feel her, though he isn't trying to flee her presence in the first place. He has slowly become accustomed to sensing it while he watches people and events.

In the second week of their stay in the quiet state, something about the way he regards Christine changes. He notices it one morning when she's in the motel's shower; at the time he'd happened to walk by the bathroom door when something catches his attention. He pauses by the door; he's never felt this in the entirety of his time with her, over a year now. He tilts his head, studying the feeling. It is completely different than anything he knows and gingerly he places the pads of his fingers on the door, trying to get a closer analysis of what it is that is there. The small molecules that hold them together are altered and the more he studies it, the more they change.

He can't see her, but he can feel the way the hot water is running down her body, over her shoulder blades, past her navel, licking along her ankles. Her hands touch places she keeps hidden under clothes and he wants to feel the weight of her wet hair in his hands. It feels as if he's there with her, closer than he actually is, phantom sensations that cause him to stumble away from the door.

Quickly, nervously, he gathers his things and leaves the motel room. As he creates distance between them, the feelings she's emoting start to fade from within him and he feels comfortable once more.

His kind rarely need to bathe; their bodies are similar to Teflon, repelling the matter of the world. Of course he does require the occasional cleaning to rinse the dust and debris acquired from time travel or weather. This landscape is very dusty, though. While he uses his handkerchief to dust himself off and it does a good job, the amount of time Christine spends in the water confuses him. He forces himself to think of other things and he never dwells on the matter again.

* * *

Christine has always considered herself a moral person, afraid that if she does something bad it will affect someone else with unnecessary and negative consequences. But money for the two of them is an incredibly limited resource and she feels forced into an action entirely out of character for her. She's not comfortable shoplifting, but sometimes she has to. A pair of new socks, some new underwear, a toothbrush, hairties, hair dye…she never realised she was so good at slipping things into her purse or into her pocket, learning how to covertly spot store cameras and the best ways to remove the little devices that set off the security alarms at the door. Items such as pens and toothpaste are easy enough to come by in motels and thankfully she is still doing fine with cosmetics because she doesn't use it anymore—who does she have to make herself up for?

August thankfully is a very low maintenance kind of guy so all they ever have to replace for him is nail trimmers and toothbrushes. She often teases him that he's the only man she's ever known to take such good care of himself and while he only gives her a blank stare in return, she secretly believes that he's amused by the comments. After all, he's always so well kempt with his suits (now up to a grand total of three) and to be honest, she's relieved to be on the run with someone who at least looks nice.

As she finds a blind spot in the KMart to take off her old shoes and switch them with new ones she'd picked out, she makes a silent promise that if she ever gets her freedom back, she'll find some way to make up for everything she's taken.

* * *

August is nearly running when he catches up to Christine on the sidewalk—he'd returned to the motel room moments ago to find it completely empty. Immediately he'd located the last thing she'd touched in the room, a piece of paper left on his bed, thoughts of Donald Long racing through his mind. What if she'd been taken? Snatched away as he'd been out!

When he finds her minutes later, she's walking down the side of the pavement, swinging a plastic food bag in her hand; the adrenaline coursing through her stings him as he grabs her by the arm and swings her around to face him. Her eyes are wide and startled, fear coursing through her until she recognises him.

"Why are you out here?" he asks before she can say anything, the words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he thought possible.

"I left you a note," she says, pointing to the paper he still has in his hand.

"I'm sorry, I cannot read what you've written," he confesses.

"My cursive isn't that bad," she declares and he feels a bit of amusement in her as she takes the paper from him. "It says: 'August, I'm going to the park for an hour. I found moldy bread in the dumpster and I wanted to feed the geese. I'll be back at 11, Christine'."

"You need more freedom," he states as he looks at the word that is his name.

"Yes! And I didn't want this bread to go to waste." She lowers her voice to a nervous murmur. "You need to let go of my arm—people are staring."

He glances about the street and sees that indeed those near by are watching him with nervous curiosity. His hand loosens on her and the smile he's used to creeps back on her face as she takes a step back from him.

"You cannot go out on your own," he says softly.

She nods. "Okay. I'm sorry I made you worry."

He doesn't understand. "Worry?"

"Don't pretend you weren't. I could see the panic in your eyes," she replies, her smile growing larger.

"I was worried," he realises aloud—he'd felt this way when he'd realised the Council of Months needed her dead and now he knew what the emotion was called.

"But I'm okay." She starts to walk back with him to the motel. "Wanna get pizza for lunch? My treat?"

He doesn't want her to feel confined and he realises that her kind do not do well when limited.

"If you want to go outside, tell me and I will come with you," he tells her.

She has such a unique smile. "I'll get us pizza with extra peppers."

* * *

"You can't love someone you don't know," she tells him very pointedly a week later.

They're enjoying lunch at a diner in town, his food already consumed which leaves him the pleasure of watching her eat her salad.

"What about the phrase you say, 'love at first sight'?" he asks confused as this seems to be a very believable thing to him.

At this she smiles. "Ah, now see _there's_ the problem. It's not actual love—it's lust."

"So you don't believe in love at first sight?"

She smirks. "No way."

"Do you believe in gravity?" he asks, very curious about what exactly it is that she believes.

She nods. "Of course."

"Do you believe in time?" he inquires.

"Yes," she says, nodding again.

"Do you believe in alternate universes?"

She pauses for a moment. "I suppose that's possible."

He's fascinated that she can accept one thing without accepting another. "But you can't believe that someone could truly loves someone without knowing them?"

She shakes her head. "I can't."

"You put limitations on others because you believe it is too big a concept to comprehend," he explains, wanting her to see how illogical she's being considering it is her kind that feels these things.

He watches her drink from her lemonade and then she states very boldly, "Love is the final frontier, August. It is the only thing that everyone knows and yet they do not understand."

He cocks his head to the side watching the way "If you had the opportunity to understand it, would you?"

He suddenly feels a stab of pain in her and she gives him a smile that doesn't seem happy. "Let's be honest. I really don't think I'm in a position anymore to find love."

August stares into her eyes until she turns her attention down to her plate. He can see her eyes are watering, though she's obviously trying to hide the physical signs of her The ache that radiates from her makes him uncomfortable as if he's eaten sugar, his mind beginning to reel and the food in his stomach doesn't seem to be digesting properly.

"You shouldn't put limits on yourself that aren't necessary," he says hoarsely before quickly excusing himself.

He stumbles out into the parking lot and behind a truck he regurgitates the sandwich and water he'd eaten in the diner. As he supports himself with one hand on the truck's trailer hitch, he can hear Christine running out of the building towards him. He pulls out a handkerchief, cleaning his mouth off and she stands next to him, her left hand resting on his lower back. The pain in her is gone, replaced with something warmer and stronger than the anguish.

"Are you alright?" she asks and he can sense that her emotions in that moment are for him alone.

"You should believe in love," he replies hoarsely before returning to the diner to pay their tab.

* * *

Christine has never been _intimate_ with anyone, something she takes great pride in. She wants to be truly, madly, deeply in love before she gives herself to someone, her one and only. But she is also human, with the urges of any other woman and often finds herself craving things, the feeling building and consuming until she actually _does_ something about it.

Wyoming during July is deathly hot and their room's swamp cooler is just barely relieving the discomfort of the heat. She resorts to showering three or four times a day to remove the layer of sweat and cool her body off just enough to deal with the overwhelming humidity.

She doesn't know where August is right now, just that he's out doing whatever it is he does when he leaves her here alone. Sometimes she wonders what he's up to, but anytime she's asked he simply stares at her in the emotionless way he does and she drops the subject. Fresh out of the shower, she wanders into the room naked and feeling refreshed. The door is locked and the chain is in place, so she circles back to her bed.

Her hair smells sweet from the conditioner that comes her blonde dye and the motel room smells like the fresh strawberries that August had brought her for breakfast. Nothing interesting is on tv and her mind isn't really interested on shows anyway so she slips into her bed, pulling the thin bedsheet over herself. The bed is cool and as she lets her damp hair fan out across her pillow, she imagines what it's possibly like to be in love, head over heels infatuated with someone.

A smile crosses her lips as she feels the warmth her body creates and she sinks lower into the bed—she's a virgin, not a prude! Languid touches and closed eyes help her picture devotion, a man who would do anything for her and she for him. She believes in love, she really does…

The only sound in the room other than the damp exhale of the swamp cooler is her heavy breathing and she stares at the ceiling as she imagines. Her back arches and she shifts her hips, her head tossing as she fights back a moan. He hasn't closed the closet all the way and all of a sudden her mind takes her back to the night when she'd been wedged between the mattress and the wall of another motel room—he'd been in the closet, waiting in the dark and for a slight second she wonders if he's in there waiting right now—she squeezes her eyes shut. Ugh, she doesn't want to think of August while she's touching herself.

But of course her eyes open once more and she looks over to the closet. He could be there, watching her. She's tempted to call out for him, demand he show himself but she doesn't. It's a ridiculous thought of course, but she turns her head away just the same. Maybe he's there, maybe she just ought to finish…she moans loudly, her free hand twisting up the bedsheets…

* * *

August had managed to acquire a bag of bread at the local market on the afternoon of their last day in Wyoming. He hadn't expected such a pleased reaction from Christine when he presented it to her, but the surge of happiness hits him like a tidal wave and she immediately insists that they go to the park and feed the ducks. They spend nearly two hours sitting in the shade of tree, she feeding the mallards and he studying their surroundings. It's early evening when they return to their motel; she's talking to him about the Battle of Waterloo and even though he can feel it will happen a millisecond before it does, he doesn't catch her in time. Her foot catches on the bottom step of their motel's staircase and her hands fly out to brace herself as she falls onto the concrete steps. She cries out in pain and he suddenly stumbles as a tinge in his own right knee echoes her injury.

"You're hurt," he remarks as she stands up.

She winces and starts to dust herself off. "No, I'm fine—"

"You're feeling pain in your knee," he insists, very aware of what she feels as it's effecting him as well.

"It's just a little bump—"

He scoops her up in his arms and her small hands hold onto his shoulders. With her face so close to his, he can see the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks.

"You don't have to carry me—" she starts to insist before her eyes widen as she looks down at the stairs he ascends. "Watch the steps! Stop looking at me!"

He can't fathom not looking at her. "I won't trip. Your knee is hurt."

"Safe and sound. Now put me down," she orders and he carefully lowers her onto her feet. "Ow."

"Shall I carry you to the—"

She waves her hands at him to keep him from lifting her again. "No, I can make it. I'm just glad I got ice from the ice machine this morning! I'll have to definitely need to ice it…"

"You are very brave," he tells her in a moment of vulnerability.

"Why me?" she asks, their voices saying the words in unison.

"Because you are important," he replies.

She doesn't say the next part aloud as she continues limping to the room, but he can hear it just the same.

"Why?"


	6. Chapter 6

**TITLE:** _Chapter Seven_

**PAIRING:** _Augustine_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**CHALLENGES:** _Reno, Santa Monica_

**WORD COUNT:** _3270_

**WARNINGS:** _Suggested sexual themes_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _This chapter was probably my favourite to write :)_

**DISCLAIMER:**

* * *

In Reno they spend the first ten minutes standing at the top level of the old Fitzgerald's parking garage across from the train station. It's overcast and cool, the air moving violently as it lifts and throws discarded papers around the city streets. August is standing beside their luggage and her hands are buried in her windbreaker, teal and found in their last stolen car. He's viewing people walking beneath the Reno Arch, patiently observing hurried beings using the crosswalk more as a suggestion than anything else.

The small strings, fibres, and fingers that connect him to his Christine silently tingle, indicating she's moving closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her standing next to him, her short blonde locks whipping around her face as she leans against the chest-high cement wall. She looks down at the street below and he can feel her curiosity at what he's watching, anticipating her question before she even knows she's going to ask it.

"Let me see your binoculars," she says and he pulls the binoculars away from his face, turning them towards her. She shakes her head. "No, I mean let me hold them.

"No."

She tilts her head and gives a slight smile. "Come on."

He shakes his head. "I can't."

The smile becomes larger. "Can't or won't?"

"Both."

"Come on—let me see them!" she insists and he quickly holds them above his head before she can snatch it out of his hands.

"They are not for your eyes," he tries to explain.

"Oh, don't be silly. If they're regular binoculars then they're fine. If they're X-Ray specs, that's even better!" she insists, still trying to grab hold of them.

He can hardly focus with the feelings of their bodies so close together, as if he's close to a live wire, but manages to give her a very firm, "I will find you a pair of your own, but you can't use these."

"Fine." She is still standing close and suddenly she lowers her eyes and backs away from him. "I'm going to go wait on the sidewalk," she mumbles before darting off to the parking garage stairway.

He watches her go, unsure what to make of the emotions she's feeling; they're the same odd ones he's sensed from her before, the ones while she's alone, but now they're directed towards him. He tries to watch the Arch again, but he can't concentrate on what he's doing, so he abandons his post to go join her on the ground below.

* * *

August carries their two articles of shared luggage up the flight of motel steps; she no longer has her large rolling suitcase nor her purse and he stores his one additional suit in her carryon along with her clothes. He knows her kind like to collect things they find important and pleasing, so sometimes he wonders if she feels comfortable with such few belongings. He can't imagine living without the secrets he has hidden in his briefcase.

He slips the keycard into the door's lock and allows her to walk in first. "Here's our room."

Christine enters the room then stops dead in her tracks. "Oh my **goodness**." She's suddenly laughing so hard that she's gripping her sides. "_You got a room with mirrors on the ceiling_?"

"The manager said the bed pulls apart into two separate ones," he explains as he sets their luggage down and waves his hand to the king-sized bed, but she's still giggling as she sits in the room's chair to slip her shoes off. "Why are you laughing?"

"You got a room with mirrors on the ceiling!" she says again.

"I can watch you sleep," he explains as he starts to pull the bed apart.

"You got a room with _mirrors_ on the _ceiling_," she repeats.

"I can watch you sleep," he offers again, reassuring her that the mirror can and will be used.

"I've never been in a room with mirrors on the ceiling." She gives him an odd smile. "How about you?"

"I did not realise mirrors could be put on ceilings." He points to the separated mattress he's holding. "You would like this bed?"

She nods. "Yeah, I know you like to sleep closer to the door."

He nods. "I can keep a better watch of the door when I am closer to it."

"I like being closer to the bathroom so I don't have to stumble around in the dark, so it all works out I guess," she says with a shrug. "Mirrors on the ceiling," she mutters one last time before giggling her way towards the television.

* * *

Two mornings after they arrive in Reno, Christine is a little surprised when she sees the calendar and realises what day it is. Have they really been on the run for two and a half years?

"Today's my birthday," she announces aloud, wanting to confirm it herself and notify August, who's sitting on the edge of his bed, polishing the worn leather of his shoes.

"You are not pregnant," he tells her and her brow furrows in confusion.

"No—what? My birthday. You know, when I was born thirty years ago?" She tilts her head back to look at her refection in the ceiling's mirror. "God, I'm _thirty_."

"It is important to you. That is not the day I think of as important."

She raises an eyebrow. "What day is important to you?"

"Twenty-three years ago when I first saw you."

She feels her cheeks flush and she turns back to the calendar. "Well, I usually do something special for my birthday."

"Why?" he asks.

She looks at him. "Don't you do something special to celebrate the day you saw me?"

Suddenly her head feels light and clear and she can hear him thinking,_ 'Everyday is special since I saw you',_ but the moment is gone when he actually speaks aloud.

"What do you do?" he asks.

She stumbles with her thoughts for a moment, not sure if she's crazy or if she's imagined it or if it was real, but manages to recover her composure quickly. "A cake. And sometimes I'd go out drinking with friends. And I'd treat myself to shopping."

He looks at her for a moment then offers slowly, "Would you like that? Shopping and cake?"

"We can have cake. We don't have to go shopping," she says quickly. "Most guys don't like to do that."

His hand is still paused in the polishing of his shoe. "If it's what you're used to—"

Christine gives a loud, exasperated sigh as she rolls her eyes. "August, it's _fine_. We can have something sweet after dinner tonight."

* * *

Christine has made a game of it. This evening in her little black dress and loose curls, she's pretending to be from the Midwest, Missouri where she'd once stood out in the middle of a thunderstorm, and August is her beau. She's linked her arm through his as the casino restaurant hostess leads them to their table, a booth in a half circle so they can sit side by side as they watch the show on the front stage—the Rat Pack look-alikes are singing out the best-ofs, a fake Sammy Davis Jr tapdancing for everyone's amusement.

"It's my birthday," she says to the hostess who smiles and congratulates her.

August is silent, watching the people around him and for a moment she wonders if maybe she's put him in an awkward situation but as though he can read her mind, he quickly states that he is interested in seeing how she celebrates today. He orders something that sounds obscenely spicy and she picks lobster.

By the end of the evening he's still sitting with his perfect posture and when the actor portraying Frank Sinatra comes down from the stage to give her a small bouquet of roses while the look-alikes sing her 'happy birthday', he moves closer to her, his arm quickly draping over the back of her half of the booth. She suspects it's a protective gesture as he isn't actually touching her, but she can never truly be sure with him.

Dessert for her is French and his is a plate full of habaneros. The way she's licking the crème brûlée off her spoon is incredibly inappropriate, not sure if she wants him to tell her to stop or if she wants him to watch.

"This is really good. Sure you don't want any?" she asks as the last song is being sung on the stage.

"Unfortunately, I don't do to well with sugar."

She has no idea if she's actually implying anything with the way she's using the spoon, so she can't decide if he's implying anything with his reply. In the end, August says nothing more and she finishes dessert without another word.

* * *

August lies on his back, hands folded over his abdomen, his eyes focused on the mirror on the ceiling. His head is tilted slightly to the right to look at Christine sleep, infatuated with the way she looks from this angle. He is lying beside her—on his own bed, she on hers—but he is able to look at her as though he is above her. As he watches her on the mirror on the ceiling, he wonders if he should request rooms with mirrors from now on—a room entirely composed of mirrors so he can see her from every angle at all times. August likes being this close to her—he watches her smile in her sleep—and wonders if she likes being this close to him.

* * *

Santa Monica is warm and bright from the summer sun, something he senses she likes. He doesn't require the heat but he knows her kind require the light to flourish and it unsettles him to think that he's keeping her from something she needs. She keeps the motel room window cracked open, explaining that she likes smelling the salty ocean air. He isn't able to sense salt and he tries to fathom what having the extra sense would be like. But then he remembers that she lacks many of the basic senses he has and he supposes lacking the ability to experience salt is not so bad. After all, he can feel the pleasure she receives from the ocean air.

One afternoon he awakens to find her sprawled on her bed, head at the foot of the mattress; a soft breeze lifts the thin curtain lightly as she stares out the window. The night previous he was able to acquire additional money, a secret stash he'd hidden away in another time and place, something to keep them comfortable for the time being. Of course, retrieving the funds meant he had to leave her long enough to move through time which came with the expected drain on his energy. He has been asleep since midnight which meant he missed the opportunity to watch her wake up; he is still lightheaded from the time travel, but as he sits up he finds the wooziness entirely worth it if it means he gets to watch her lie there, muted sunlight dappling her face, across her neck, trailing down her clavicle…

Finally he feels that she senses he's watching her and she turns her head over to him, giving him a smile.

"Hey. You're awake," she murmurs in a very relaxed tone.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, becoming aware of the invisible strings holding them together.

"No, I'm okay." She sits up as well. "Feeling better?"

"I am fine."

She brushes her blonde hair out of her face. "This brings the grand total to three."

He tilts his head. "I do not understand."

Her smile broadens. "Three times I've seen you sleep in three years."

"Come with me, please," he says as he stands up.

The smile on her lips fades; he feels a shiver run through her and he realises these were the first words he'd said to her the morning he'd taken her. She seems aware of this and her eyes avoid him; he senses something, dread and he cannot think of what to say to comfort her, so he stands there for a moment before pulling an envelope out of the nightstand. He begins to walk towards the door, knowing she will follow and though he doesn't turn around, he can hear her moving off the bed and silently walking behind him.

Out of the motel room, down the staircase, out the parking lot, down the sidewalk, August leads her two blocks away, the silence between them heavy. Finally they stop in front of a building he'd noticed two days previous and he hands her the envelope.

"For the colour you want."

Her eyebrow lifts. "Pardon?"

He gestures to her hair. "You miss the colour. I thought you would want it back."

Her eyes widen considerably. "But I thought…"

He gestures to the windows where they can see women inside being transformed. "This is a place where women have their hair changed. If you would like to change your hair to the colour that makes you happy, you may." He tilts his head and glances around the street. "It is safe. Can you feel it?"

"You sure this is okay?" she asks, holding the envelope tightly.

His head is beginning to spin again. "I must go back to the room."

She nods and he feels a twinge of her concern for him. "I'll be back in a few hours, okay?"

He opens the door for her and she enters hesitantly but he can feel how excited she is to be on her own.

* * *

When she returns her hair is a deep red, _chile seco del norte_, and it's long, which seems to defy logic. He reaches out and touches the silky straight hair, not thinking, and she chuckles.

"Extensions," she tells him. "You gave me a lot of money."

"How did they make your hair so long?" he asks, completely baffled.

"I told you—extensions. See?" She lifts up her hair and he sees the long strands have been attached to her own natural hair. Her fingers run through her hair and she gives him an unusual smile that quickly becomes wide.

"Do you like it?" she asks, spinning playfully so that the long tresses fan out.

He holds her still, wanting to study her; once again his hands go to her hair and he processes the information with utmost care. He has always looked the same and yet she is able to change her appearance so easily. The colour against her skin is so rich and he wonders how she knew to pick it.

"When the Magdalena pepper is dried, it achieves this colour," he finally states, not sure what exactly he's trying to say.

"And you're our resident chili expert." Her cheeks have flushed but her eyes don't leave his. "Uh, I was thinking that if you're feeling better maybe we could get something to eat down on the pier? They're having a hot sauce tasting."

He finally lets go of her hair and retrieves his felt Homburg off the foot of his bed. "I would like that."

* * *

Christine is humming the jingle from a commercial as she heads back to the bathroom; she's been enjoying a warm but rainy afternoon indoors, cleaning her laundry in the motel sink. August has been in and out of the motel room all day, occasionally bringing her things like candy bars, a small flashlight, and a brand new pocket dictionary. He says nothing when he hands them over, but she doesn't miss that he's avoiding her eyes as he does so, almost shy. She doesn't know why he's being so…_affectionate_—if he could ever be considered affectionate—but she likes it. The small presents adorn her side of the nightstand

As she walks into the bathroom she feels a rush of adrenaline kick in when she realises he's standing in there as well. He glances at her curiously, hand poised less than an inch from something black and thong-like.

"August, you perv! Leave my delicates alone!" she gasps, rushing over to keep her underclothes from his eyes.

"What are these?" he asks curiously, his hand still raised towards the lacy material.

"They cover my naughty bits," she whispers loudly, her face flushed from embarrassment as she proceeds to yank them off the shower curtain rod.

"Your naughty bits?" he echoes.

"You know, my _yummies_," she says, letting the euphemism she created when she was seventeen slip.

His eyes don't leave hers as he asks, "Food?"

She studies him for a moment then decides he must be teasing her.

"_August_," she says with a somewhat fond sigh and shakes her head. "God damn, I'm just going to dry these in the closet from now on. Now get out and stop _looking_ at them."

He gives them a final glance to the clothing in her arms before leaving the restroom. Christine quickly shuts the door, leaning back against it as she starts to give an embarrassed and muffled gale of laughter. How had they been living together for so long and never seen each other's laundry until now? Her mind suddenly flits to the first time she ever saw him without clothes and the laughter dies, her cheeks returning to their shade of pink as the memory begins to play over and over again in her mind, entirely welcome.

* * *

It's very early morning, the fog from the ocean hugging close to the streets as it surrounds the buildings and cars. The spring sun at the horizon illuminates everything in clear gold, but Christine still wears her windbreaker to keep warm from the chill. While they aren't the only people out, they are the only people standing on the top of the building August had selected. They are at least a hundred feet up and she leans over the edge of the rooftop to look down at the parting miasma.

August hands her the binoculars and stands behind her, his hands resting on the outside of hers, his head next to hers. His hand lifts for a moment and she feels chills course through her as his fingers pull her hair back and tuck it behind her ear. The feeling of having someone's arms around her for the first time in years makes her heart race and she has to fight the intense urge to lean back into his chest. He isn't warm or even particularly close, but the physical contact is overwhelming.

His words are gentle in her ear and she can feel his voice.

"That one," he instructs, pointing to a man walking briskly down the sidewalk.

She raises the binoculars and gives a startled gasp, bumping back into him. She's never seen anything like this.

"August," she whispers, almost frightened, but mostly in awe.

Inside the binoculars there are small electronic halos that focus on their own, numbers and lights that make no sense to her but they follow the man she's watching. It's thrilling and frightening because she doesn't understand what it all means, why August has these binoculars but she can tell it is important.

"I thought you weren't going to let me use them," she finally admits shakily as the man he had selected disappears into a coffee shop.

He is still standing behind her. "I made an exception."

"Why me?" she whispers, passing the binoculars over to his hand, their fingers nearly touching.

"Because you are important."

She shivers and she doesn't think it's because of the fog. "Why?"


	7. Chapter 7

**TITLE:** _Chapter Seven_

**PAIRING:** _August_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**CHALLENGES:** _New Mexico, Idaho_

**WORD COUNT:** _2126_

**WARNINGS:** _None_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**DISCLAIMER:**

* * *

New Mexico is dry, something he likes and warm, something she likes. In Santa Monica he found a convertible to get away with and she loves it. They keep the top down as they drive down long, empty stretches of road, her deep red hair flying in the wind like a banner. She's wearing a pair of large sunglasses that he'd bought her at a diner, while he wears the fedora and aviators that have been with him since forever.

She tans in this sun, never burning…her skin goes from the soft almond paste he's used to something more golden, a café au lait perhaps. The radio plays loudly—he is not able to process music the way she does, so it's nothing more than additional noise, but she enjoys repeating the woman's words in the same way. She smiles at him, her teeth white and her lips the soft pink of an heirloom tomato…

He starts becoming worried when seeing her like this causes the breath in his throat to catch—he shouldn't be suffering from a physiological reaction to another being. He's never—_everything_ about her makes him feel different. He finds himself more and more interested in watching her, experiencing what and how she is, wanting to spend every moment with her so that he doesn't miss a single thing.

In the city, after switching license plates again, they find food at a restaurant heavily saturated in spices. While August is used to attracting stares from people, he is surprised at how much attention Christine receives, especially from the males in the room.

"They're looking at you," he murmurs.

She looks concerned. "Is my hair okay?"

He isn't sure how to explain what it is he's feeling as it's not something he's experienced before now, just that he doesn't like that they're able to see her. They don't see what he sees—they don't appreciate nor know how important she is and yet they stare as if they do.

"They like how you look," he finally explains, eyeing the restaurant's occupants with this new and unpleasant emotion.

He feels a flurry of excitement and pleasure in Christine and he looks at her; her cheeks are slightly flushed and she tucks her long red locks back behind her ear as she reads the menu. She doesn't act like this around him and he doesn't understand why they garner this reaction in her.

"The number fifteen," he tells the waitress when she comes to their table. "And a full plate of the hottest chilies you have."

Christine hands over her menu. "And I'll have the—"

"Raita, stuffed naan pla—" Their voices synchronize, his being an agitated reaction.

"August," she warns, stopping him from speaking with her. "Stuffed naan platter and a mango lassi."

The waitress gives her a knowing smile. "When I was first dating my husband, he could finish all my sentences, too."

"A fiancé becomes a husband," August states to her as the waitress leaves, fidgeting with his shirt cuff.

"Yes, August, I know," she says with an irritated huff before taking a drink of her ice water.

"Why do you want them to look at you?" he asks, the new emotion still having hold of him.

"I don't." Her eyes widen and once again they start speaking at the same time—he can't help it now, he's feeding off her emotions. "What makes you think that I want people looking at me—damnit, August! I can't stand it when you say my sentences with me—it's creepy and annoying!"

"You're frustrated," he murmurs.

"_Yes_."

The waitress returns to their table with a large plate of assorted chilies. He pushes the plate for her in an offering to make up for upsetting her and she gives him a forlorn sigh.

"Chilies make me sick, August."

He knows that of course, but he still wants to make the gesture.

"These are my favourite," he explains as he selects one of the large red berries. "_Bhut Jolokia_, often called _Naga Jolokia_, the King Cobra chile. They are the hottest peppers available."

He can feel her anger melting away and her lips form the slightest smile. "I wish I could try one."

"I wish you could, too."

* * *

August is supposed to be watching the world around him but instead he is looking at a photo of Christine. This one was taken hours ago by him, only in another time—he'd returned to the apartment he'd been staying in a few years ago and retrieved the pictures from the wall. He's staring at her face, the one he knows better than anything and even though he's seen it a lifetime's worth, he feels as though he hasn't seen it enough.

Time travel requires expending massive levels of energy, the farther the distance and longer time amount of time spent traveling resulted in a larger burnout. He is cold and exhausted, but for the first time he desires privacy, not wanting her to see him this way. He realises now that he has become intoxicated with the experience of feeling—the experience of seeing everything in a different way, the world through her eyes, he feels as though living in a world without her…

But his kind is not supposed to feel this way about her kind. They are all unique all special and none of the other members of the Council have showed such interest in an individual before, but he knows she is important, more than others' lives, more than his own.

He recalls tender bruises on her wrists, the way he felt when she'd hurt herself because of him. Fascination…he'd felt the ache, too…the vulnerable timbre of her voice as she pleaded—

_**Please don't hurt me. Why are you doing this? Please let me go. I**__**promise I won't tell anyone.**__**You don't have to do this.**_

—for her life, not realizing he wasn't the threat. He'd wanted nothing more in that moment than to spend the rest of her life keeping her safe, protecting her from everything that wanted to keep them apart: fate, time, the Council of Months.

He longs for his old notebook that had recorded many things about her. Of course he'd memorized everything he'd documented, but the way he'd felt when he'd first seen her doing those things had soaked into the paper and ink. He wonders if Walter Bishop can sense how much of a sacrifice it had been to leave the book behind.

Something wet falls onto the photo and for a moment he thinks it's a raindrop before realizing that he's crying. Well, as close as his kind can come to crying. A second drop of saline runs down his cheek.

Donald Long had seen the pictures and he had known. He had seen the pictures and he had known that the Council had been wrong, that Christine was important. Christine would _always_ be important.

* * *

It is her soft voice that brings him 'round, that with the soothing comfort of her presence. "_August_?"

He struggles to sit up in his bed but can't, his head spinning. "Is there something you need?"

She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Christine." He holds her hand in his, stroking her knuckles with his fingertips. "My briefcase."

She nods, the sensation of her worry flooding him and retrieves it from the motel room desk. "Here."

He carefully opens the lock and turns the briefcase towards her. Instantly he's filled with her overwhelming emotions, a tumultuous blend of confusion, shock, and despair which make his head spin and his esophagus tighten painfully.

"What…?" She exhales hard and removes the stuffed toy he's been safeguarding for nearly two decades, though many more in and out of time. "My bear. My dad won this for me…I was holding it in the back seat when the bridge collapsed."

He's breathing heavy—the agony radiating from her is crushing and he tries to close the briefcase because he doesn't know how much more of her torment he can handle.

"Are these pictures of _me_?" she chokes out as she pulls out the precious photos he's kept. Large tears start to roll down her cheeks as she looks back up at him. They are silent for a moment before she admits, "I don't understand."

He wants to tell her what he feels, that she is important like no other, but she stands up at that moment, holding herself and avoiding his eyes as the tears continue.

"I'm gonna go stand outside. I need some fresh air." She hurries to the motel door and he can feel that she can't get away from him fast enough. "If you need anything, just holler."

He lays weakly in bed and blacks out not long after she shuts the door behind her.

* * *

They don't talk about the photos or the stuffed bear ever again. Not aloud, at least.

Treasure. It is a word that is both a verb and a noun, to prize something, an object of great value. Christine is greatly disturbed by the photos, not because August has them but because they exist in the first place. They fill her with confusion and questions, more questions than anything. August obviously got them from the people out to kill her—how else could he have them? But exactly how long has she been followed? What did she do? The photos have the same golden halo that his binoculars show which makes her begin to wonder if whomever August worked for or worked with is the threat.

Sometimes she'll take his briefcase and lock herself in the bathroom so she can look at the photos and the bear in privacy. Pictures of her as a child—long before the bridge in San Francisco, the intimate photos of everyday activities. Smiling, making a phone call, riding her bike, talking to a guy she'd been kinda interested in…She wonders what August had thought of the photos when he'd acquired them. Usually she cries quietly while looking at them, her own private mourning, and sometimes she can hear August's soft footsteps waiting outside the bathroom door but he always retreats by the time she comes out.

The photos and the bear have no actual monitary value but she can see why August's held onto them—they are treasure, the only remaining memories of her former life.

* * *

They are ready to leave this town and move on to the next. August is trying to take the luggage out to their current stolen car but has been unintentionally distracted as he watches Christine undo her long plaits of red hair. If his hands weren't full with the carry on and briefcase he would have unbraided it for her just to feel it. As she turns around, she holds out her hand.

"Here, give me the keys."

His eyes leave her locks. "Why?"

She smiles. "So I can drive."

"Why?"

They begin to speak at the same time. "Because I know you like to look at things and I thought you could watch—"

She frowns at him.

"Don't _repeat_ me," she chastises.

He wishes she knew that he did it because it meant he was bonded to her, but he doesn't say anything. She tosses her red hair back over her shoulder then crosses her arms across her chest.

"As I was going to say, I thought if I was the one driving, you could look outside the window. You know, at things."

He looks at her, unable to keep from looking at her entirety. "Is that what you do while I drive?"

She looks confused. "Yes."

"Then I will drive so you can look," he replies, as that is the logical conclusion.

Her cheeks flush and her brow furrows, not the response he'd expected.

"Look, I was just trying to do something nice for you!" she shouts.

She throws her purse on the bed and stomps off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

She's crying and he can feel it more than he can hear it. He leans his forehead against the bathroom door, closing his eyes as he tries to refasten their bond to one another. It's very distressing when she lets her emotions sever the small threads that hold them together and he works quickly to connect them together once more. His hands press against the thin wood, fingertips wanting to push through the paneling to touch her, to reach out and show her the way she made him feel—

"Why me?" she calls out as if she can sense he's so close.

"Because you are important," he murmurs, aching for her aura.

He knows she didn't hear his answer and yet she asks, "_Why_?"


	8. Chapter 8

**TITLE:** _Chapter Eight_

**PAIRING:** _August/Christine_

**CHARACTERS:** _August, Christine Hollis_

**GENRE:** _Romance, Dark_

**RATING:** _ M_

**SUMMARY:** _A love that was never meant to be…_

**WORD COUNT:** _1436_

**WARNINGS:** _Sexual themes_

**SPOILERS:** _Episode 2.08 "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**DISCLAIMER:**

* * *

They've been running for five years, always looking back over their shoulders for the ones seeking them out. At the moment they're living in small town on the border of Alaska and Canada, in a one-room tourist's cabin. Her hair is not longer red and straight, but returned to her wavy brown and it's shoulder length. He no longer feels any desire from her to seek a life outside of the one the have on the run, not surrender but acceptance. He takes her with him when he goes to watch others, enjoying her company, showing her how and what to document. Her notebook isn't as detailed as his new one, but she's been quick to learn and understand why he is compelled to observe.

After all this time together, the ability to read her emotions is even stronger, the connexion between them more intense. Being with her is the same as being by fire—the closer he gets, the more powerful her emotions imbue him. Unlike the rest of his long and unusual life, August finds himself very happy living with another being. He's still in the habit of doing things on his own but her closeness is welcome. Sometimes she'll move her body near his as he washes the dishes, other times her arm will go over the back of his section of the couch while he reads the newspaper, and on occasion she'll touch her leg to his as they eat at the local diner; he can tell she's going out of her way to initiate physical contact with him—he's forgotten how her kind crave attention by touching and being touched.

As of late, she says the blankets aren't enough to keep her warm in bed. The thoughts and emotions he can feel within her speak the truth, though there is still something more that seems to August as if she's trying to hide something from him. He offers hot water bottles, moving her bed closer to the fireplace, and thicker long johns, but she says that's not what she needs.

Finally one evening when the wind is howling around the little cabin, she _shows_ him what she wants, climbing into his bed under the thin sheets. _I want to be close,_ she breaths into his ear as he sits in his trousers and crisp white button-up against the headboard. He suddenly finds himself unsure what to do as she tugs at him to join her, so he does what she wants and joins her under the sheets, lying down with her on the small bed.

She moves onto her side and he mimics the action so that they're facing one another. _You're so warm,_ she murmurs, _like the sun_. He brushes the braid of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. _I'm nothing like the sun…you're like the sun, _he replies suddenly wanting her so close to him that he burns. She seems to realise this and moves up against him, making it possible for him to treasure her in his arms. He wants to tell her anything and everything but she moves her head closer to his and presses her lips against his. He watches her eyes close…and a different, heightened form of the way he feels for her fills him.

_Oh,_ he breathes when she finally pulls away, her eyes opening once more. She smiles and repeats the action, one of her hands moving up to rest on the back of his neck and while he isn't used to being touched on such a vulnerable part of the body, he can tell this is something to do with trust and he has always trusted her. Her body moves closer to his and the sensation of their forms together makes her happy, something he feels through her.

She uses one of her small hands to push on his shoulder, causing him to lie on his back and she moves around a bit under the sheets before she lifts herself up and straddles him.

She's naked from the waist down.

Completely still, he watches in utter fascination as her eyes lock onto his as she begins to remove the shirt she's wearing, throwing it off onto the floor. He's tempted to fold it for her because he doesn't like wrinkles but this is the first time he's ever seen her like _this_ and he doesn't want to miss a second of it. His hands suddenly itch to touch her, to see if this is all real and as if she knows what he's thinking, her hands find his and pull them up to touch her face and her neck, directing them across her clavicle and then—her body arches slightly and experimenting, he repeats the movements to get the same reaction.

Her hands guide him in what she wants and soon he's able improvise though her hands still rest upon his. She's warm and not just physically; her aura glows from red to yellow to the edges of white, the corresponding colour for heat at its hottest setting.

She leans forward to press her lips to his once more and while it's quickly becoming a wonderfully exhilarating experience, he is not prepared for where she puts his hand next. He'd **never** considered that as a place to touch but now her cheeks are completely flushed and her lips are swollen pink; his fingers curl and push up and she gasps, her eyes widening slightly as her hands tighten slightly around his wrist. He thinks she wants him to stop, but she whispers, _No don't stop. It feels so good_.

He _knows_ that it feels good—he's experiencing it, too. His finger moves again, coaxing the reaction from her once more and again he feels her desire for more. He can't stop watching the way her own hands touch her body, understanding it far better than he does. The way she's expressing her affection is incredibly alien to him, but he doesn't resist, knowing that she wouldn't request anything that didn't make her happy and of course it makes him happy because theirs is an endless cycle of existing off one another's emotions.

Seconds become minutes and they slowly approach the one hour mark. Her facial expressions convey potential pain and distress, but the emotions she's feeling are the complete opposite and this confuses him. He decides to simply close his eyes and experience what she's enjoying. Soon her lips have returned to his and his eyes shoot open as she moans into his mouth, causing him to inhale sharply. She feels like a raw current of electricity and he can't even begin to fathom why anyone would want to feel this kind of—

The waves of pleasure emanating through her reverberate through him, more intense than anything he's ever imagined, almost to point of being unbearable. He wants to pull away—he never wants to leave—this is something he doesn't know—listen to her moan—how could anyone want something so alarming—he can feel she's never shared this with anyone else—she wants this—she wants this—s_he wants __**me**__—_

He cries out in shock and fear as she screams out in satisfaction, calling out his name over and over _August August AugustAugustAugustAUGUST_! He wonders if she's reaffirming that he's here with her and he frantically grabs her hand, to make sure he's still here, too.

_Christine._

_Christine._

_**Christine.**_

Once her somewhat violent reaction begins to subside into a more peaceful rocking motion, she looks down at him and he finds himself transfixed with the deep brown of her eyes. Her lips curl into a happy smile as her eyes take him in. He watches in breathless wonder as she moans again, her eyes rolling upwards as her lashes flutter briefly—his hand is withdrawing and he wipes the stickiness onto the bedsheets. She gives a content sigh and lays down on top of him, her weight surprisingly pleasant.

Her lips rest against his left ear, the movement of her soft skin feather light against his electrified nerves. _Why me?_ He strokes the back of her head, twisting his fingers through the shoulder length brown locks. _Because you are important,_ he explains, matching his breathing with hers. _Why?_ she asks as the wind howls outside the cabin. He doesn't understand a lot of things about her world and sometimes he doesn't understand everything in his, but there has been one constant throughout everything. He thinks about how brave she is and how that makes him _feel_, something he's not used to doing.

When he finally speaks, his words are soft but certain. _Because I love you._


End file.
